Pandemic i-3

by Scott Sigler

  “Based on intel, anything and everything,” Porter said. “Backhoes, bulldozers, piles of cars set on fire, logs, rocks, even teams of people with shovels. And Highway 5 is just the start.”

  Porter changed the image on the main screen. The ticking death toll faded, replaced by a highway map of the United States. Hundreds of flashing red Xs showed where the highways were severed.

  “We’ve lost communication with Reno,” he said. “Flyovers show that all highway bridges have been destroyed. It’s impassable. South of Lake Tahoe, Highways 50, 88, 4, 108 and 120 have all been cut. Highway 1 south of Carmel, 101 south of Salinas, 5 near Mendota and 99 south of both Madera and Fresno, too.”

  Murray looked at the pattern of Xs. It wasn’t hard to see what was going on.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “They’re trying to isolate the San Francisco Bay Area. They’re cutting it off from the east and the south. How are the roads to the north?”

  “The 101 at Eureka is out,” Porter said. “North of there, air force sorties out of Fairchild and McChord AFBs, in conjunction with infantry from Fort Lewis, have wiped out any major efforts to cut the highways in Washington State.”

  There were some Xs in Washington and Oregon, but not as many. Something about that image bothered Murray.

  Porter hit the remote control again, bringing a map of the entire United States. Red Xs dotted the Midwest on Highways 80, 70, 40 and 20, blocked various roads into major cities.

  “The national situation is becoming untenable,” Porter said. “Roads are heavily damaged, bridges are impassable if not outright destroyed. Rails are being cut. Military and off-road vehicles can easily get around these cutouts, but standard transportation — semis and other transport trucks — cannot.”

  Murray wondered if it would ever end, how it could ever end. Unless Margaret came through and recovered that bug from Cooper Mitchell, all the military could do was slow down the inevitable.

  Vice President Albertson cleared his throat, surprising Murray — he’d forgotten the man was even there.

  “We have to push them back,” Albertson said. “What are we doing to secure the remaining infrastructure?”

  Porter looked annoyed. “We can’t push them back, sir. Even if we weren’t at less than half our normal military strength, this country is so big we can’t cover it all. We have to concentrate on defending specific transportation corridors. Outside of those and the main cities, the Converted will control everything else.”

  Albertson looked around the room, perhaps searching for someone to tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “But that’s giving up,” he said. “We have to develop new tactics to defeat the insurgents.”

  Murray couldn’t listen to the fool any longer.

  “Mister Vice President, you’re not hearing the admiral correctly,” Murray said. “America is too… damn… big. The highway system consists of one hundred and seventeen thousand miles of road. These insurgents you’re talking about were Americans. Many of them grew up in the very places they are attacking. They know the terrain, they know exactly what to hit. Now, would you please stop asking for things that are fucking impossible?”

  It was only when Murray finished talking that he realized he’d just yelled at the vice president. He sat still and waited to be thrown out.

  But Albertson didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed to shrink in his chair.

  He’s such a pussy he’ll let me yell at him — not exactly a prime candidate for the most powerful person in the free world.

  Now it was Porter who cleared his throat. Murray sensed the man was about to drop something big.

  “Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, “at this time, it is the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we withdraw all remaining troops from Europe and the Middle East. We need those troops here at home. We also recommend moving all U.S. troops in South America to defend the Panama Canal and to cut off any and all access from that continent into North America.”

  Albertson stared. He sniffed once, scratched his nose.

  “You want to coordinate with the Panamanians on that?”

  Porter shook his head. “Sir, we recommend that our troops seize control of the canal. The Mexican border is too big to cover, but we can create a choke point at the canal. Then, when we start to regain superiority, we only have to contend with clearing out Mexico — South America will have to fend for itself.”

  Everyone looked to Albertson. He seemed lost.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Abandoning our allies… seizing the Canal… we need President Blackmon to make those decisions.” He again looked around the room. “I asked someone to get her on the line for me twenty minutes ago. What the hell is wrong with you people?”

  André Vogel pinched his ever-present phone between his ear and shoulder.

  “We’re still trying,” he said. He put the phone back to his ear.

  For the first time, Murray heard Samuel Porter raise his voice.

  “Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, demanding the attention of Albertson and everyone in the room. “A decision must be made. We need to withdraw our troops from overseas, and we need to do it now.”

  Albertson’s left eye started to twitch. He stared down at the table. “I’m sorry, only the president can make that call.”

  Vogel suddenly rose, stood up board-straight as if someone had connected his chair to a car battery. He looked like he might throw up.

  “Air Force One… it’s gone down.”

  All conversation ceased. The room seemed to dim, to go nearly dark save for a score of spotlights that lit up Vice President Albertson.

  He placed his hands on the table. They were shaking.

  “I see,” he said. “When did this happen?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago,” Vogel said. “The pilot got a message out that there was some kind of commotion on the plane. He thought there was a Converted onboard, someone who dodged a cellulose test, maybe. He reported gunshots. Then fighter escort saw Air Force One go down. No survivors. President Blackmon is dead.”

  Those imaginary spotlights picked up in intensity. Their glare burned hot enough to make Albertson break out into a sweat.

  Murray sagged back into his chair. He’d believed in Blackmon’s ability to lead the nation out of this. Now she was dead, and with the nation at DEFCON 1, Albertson was the commander in chief.

  Admiral Porter broke the silence.

  “Mister President,” he said, putting emphasis on the second word, making it clear that the word Vice no longer applied. “From this moment on, you’re in charge, sir. What is your decision about our overseas troops?”

  Albertson’s eyes looked hollow. The burden of leadership had fallen to a man who clearly couldn’t handle it. Shaking hands lifted to tired eyes, rubbed them lightly.

  “If you say so, Admiral,” he said quietly. “Withdraw the troops.”

  Murray stared at Albertson. The man’s very first command of his presidency? A confidence-building if you say so.

  Maybe the Converted had already won.

  URBAN TERRAIN

  Oddly, Clarence thought of Dew Phillips.

  Before Dew died, he had been at the tail end of his career. Truth be told, he’d been well past that. In his late sixties, Dew had been forced into intense physical action while managing, protecting — and occasionally even beating the crap out of — one “Scary” Perry Dawsey.

  Clarence thought of Dew because five years ago Clarence had been the young buck on the team: fit, well trained and ready to rock. Now, Clarence was the one showing the wear and tear of age. Not that he was ready to retire, not even close, but being surrounded by twenty-five-year-olds in world-class shape made it obvious his best years were behind him.

  Of course, the bulky CBRN suit didn’t help at all. It was far less bulky than the full BSL-4 rig he’d worn on the Brashear, granted, but the fully enclosed suit still made it cumbersome to move around wrecked cars and through ank
le-deep snow. His face felt hot inside the suit’s built-in gas mask. The lenses over each eye cut off much of his peripheral vision; he found himself turning his head rapidly to make sure the Converted weren’t sneaking up from the sides.

  Clarence stayed close to Margaret. Two SEALs — the little one, Ramierez, and a swarthy man named Bogdana — shadowed them every step of the way. They and the other SEALs weren’t wearing the CBRN gear. Speed, silence and agility were as much a part of the SEAL arsenal as their M4 carbines, Mark 23 pistols and Barrett M107 rifles. Margaret had argued with Klimas about it. She wanted everyone in the suits, but the commander had ended the discussion quickly. His support of Margaret only went so far, it seemed, and didn’t include debates regarding his gear and the gear of his men.

  Tim was currently twenty or thirty feet back, Klimas and Bosh constantly at his side. As soon as Clarence and Margaret stopped, Tim and Klimas would leapfrog ahead. That was how all the troops moved: one group stayed still, ready to provide covering fire, while another group advanced forward to take up covering positions of their own.

  Two Apache helicopters flew high overhead, the roar of their engines echoing off skyscraper walls. On the ground, four SEAL fire teams were way out front, running recon. Behind them, the first Ranger platoon, then the civilians and their SEAL escorts, flanked on either side by the second Ranger platoon. The third Ranger platoon brought up the rear.

  If the Rangers had objected to wearing the CBRN gear, they had lost that battle. With their urban-camouflage-pattern suits and hoods, their black rubber gasmasks and their rifles — mostly SCAR-FNs and Mk46s, with a few bulky M240B machine guns thrown in for good measure — the Rangers looked like extras from an apocalypse movie. That meant they fit right in with the surroundings.

  Clarence could barely believe this was Chicago. Most of the lights were out, bathing the city in darkness. The place looked… dead. Soot-streaked snow covered the street, the sidewalks, abandoned vehicles and hundreds of frozen bodies. Footprints and well-worn paths through the snow were the only indication that anyone remained.

  So many footprints, so many paths. There were people here, but where were they? The SEAL recon teams had reported zero contact. They had yet to even see a single soul.

  Ramierez and Bogdana stopped behind a flipped-over BMW. Clarence crouched between them. So did Margaret, but she stepped on something under the snow and started to fall. Clarence reached out fast, softly caught her shoulders to keep her from hitting the pavement.

  She slapped his arms away.

  “I don’t need your help,” she hissed. “I’m not yours to protect anymore.”

  Before Clarence could answer, Ramierez leaned in from the right and held a finger to his lips. His eyes sent a message: shut up before you get us killed.

  Margaret nodded. She looked back down the wide street, all but ignoring Clarence.

  His wife, the mother of his child, she despised him.

  Just get her through this alive, then you’ve got a lifetime to make things right.

  He rose a little, peeked over the bottom of the overturned car. They were about to cross Mies van der Rohe Way, which would put them within a half mile of the Park Tower Hotel.

  Ramierez slid down into a crouch behind the car’s cover.

  “Ramierez here, go,” he said, not to Clarence but rather into the tiny microphone that extended down from an earpiece. “Yes sir. I’m ready.”

  The short SEAL looked at Bogdana.

  “Frank, keep the package right here until I call for you,” Ramierez said.

  Then Klimas moved silently past. Ramierez slid around the front of the overturned car and followed his commander into the shadows.

  KNOW YOUR ENEMY

  Paulius and Ramierez approached a small firehouse. The building looked medieval — two stories of grayish-tan granite with small, faux turrets on the second-story corners. Its red roll-up door looked just large enough for one fire engine to enter or exit, but nothing was going in or out thanks to the long, white public transit bus that had smashed into it at an angle.

  At the bus’s rear end, almost to the sidewalk, stood two cops — one black, one white — both dressed in heavy blue coats, their fingers laced behind their heads. Their breath billowed out in expanding clouds that glowed thanks to a nearby streetlight. The men looked both hopeful and afraid. A black XDM automatic pistol lay on the snow in front of each of them.

  They had their hands on their heads because two SEALs — Bosh and Roth — had M4s at their shoulders, barrels aimed at the cops’ chests.

  Paulius slung his own M4. He drew his sidearm, a 9-millimeter Sig Sauer P226 already fitted with a suppressor. He aimed it at the two cops as he came up on Bosh’s right.

  “Bosh, report.”

  “I saw these two exit the bus’s rear door,” Bosh said. “Thing is, advance recon looked through the bus to make sure there weren’t any bad guys hiding there that could fire on the column. When they checked it, the bus was empty. Five minutes later, Rangers march through, these guys come out of it.”

  Paulius glanced at the bus. “There a hole in the front of it that leads into the firehouse?”

  “I checked,” Bosh said. “Didn’t see any openings. I also did a walk around the firehouse, couldn’t find a way in or out. The place is locked up tight, Commander.”

  Paulius glanced at the building’s red-framed windows. In every one, behind broken glass he saw the dull glint of metal. The cops had fortified the place. Paulius had to keep his men moving — every second they spent here was a second wasted.

  He looked at the cops. “What do you two want?”

  The cops looked at each other, then back at Paulius.

  The black cop spoke. “We want you to get us the fuck out of here. We’ve been in there” — he tilted his head toward the firehouse behind him — “for two freakin’ days.”

  They looked normal, but the mission was here to rescue one man and one man only.

  “We haven’t seen anyone but you,” Paulius said. “Why didn’t you come out sooner?”

  The white cop answered. “Right after Paris burned, we were ordered to protect the engine. We were inside the firehouse when things really went to hell. There were psychos everywhere, hundreds of them — they were eating people. We called for backup, for someone to come and get us, but no one’s answering anymore. We didn’t think we’d make it on the streets, so we kept quiet, boarded the place up.”

  “Then we saw you guys, you soldiers,” the black cop said. “You came to rescue us, right? So how about you stop aiming that goddamn gun at my face and get us out of here?”

  Paulius could imagine what it had been like to hide in that building, cut off from communication, while cannibals roamed the street. These guys were cops, public servants. Probably as brave as any soldier.

  But he couldn’t let them go. They had seen his entire force. If they were captured, they might talk. And, of course, they might already be infected. He could test them, but what was the point? The stakes were too high to take even the smallest of chances.

  Paulius knew what he had to do.

  God forgive me.

  He pulled the trigger four times in just over a second. The suppressor made each shot sound like a snapping mousetrap. The first two shots hit the white cop in the face. The black cop had barely enough time to raise his eyebrows in shock and surprise before the next two rounds tore through his skull.

  Both men dropped instantly. Blood mist hung in the air, slowly drifted down on top of them.

  Paulius switched his mic to the “all units” frequency.

  “Commander Klimas to detachment. No more delays. If anyone approaches the detachment, assume they are hostiles and put them down at a distance. Quietly. Make as little noise as possible. Repeat, as little noise as possible.”

  He turned to Bosh. “Let’s move out.”

  THE PARK TOWER

  I am going to kill you all, every one of you, I will wipe you off the face of the earth.


  Margaret ran through the dark streets, doing her best to stay close to the nasty little soldier in front of her. Ramierez, his name was. What a fool — if she got the chance she’d slit his throat from ear to ear and bathe in his blood while he tried to draw air. And yet here he was, guarding her, clearly ready to risk his own life to protect hers.

  The CBRN gear made it hard to move, but it would protect her from Cooper Mitchell’s disease. Hopefully. The crawlers had found a way through her BSL-4 suit. The hydras might have that same ability. She would stay as far away from Mitchell as possible. She didn’t know how she would kill him, not yet, but as a last resort she had the holstered Sig Sauer P226 strapped to her right thigh. She would just have to watch for her chance. Take out Mitchell, then slip away into the city.

  She heard a short bark of gunfire, then another. She and Ramierez followed Clarence and Bogdana. They jogged past a car where CBRN-suited Rangers were setting up a tripod-supported machine gun, pointed back the way they had come. Other Rangers were manually pushing cars into a loose line. They were setting up a perimeter. She saw two soldiers running wires to small, green boxes that were labeled FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.

  The Rangers’ gas masks made them all look the same, made them look like the identical insects that they were.

  Past the perimeter rose the seventy-story Park Tower Hotel, a pale tan spire reaching up to the black sky. Ramierez led her to the front of the building. She saw an arced glass awning that had once sheltered guests from the rain as they entered and exited. It wasn’t sheltering anyone anymore — the only glass that remained stuck out in jagged shards. The body of a man dangled from a support beam. Icicles of blood pointed down from the ends of his fingers like stubby red claws.

  Once upon a time, a rotating glass door had kept out the Chicago winds. That, too, was nothing but shattered glass and twisted metal.

  Clarence approached and stood next to her. The mask hid most of his face, but not his eyes. He looked at her with a pathetic expression of hurt and confusion.